


The Phone Call

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Phone Calls, Sherstrade, Vulnerable Sherlock, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When badly hurt chasing a suspect, Lestrade thinks he's going to die. To combat dying with regrets, he calls Sherlock and tells him that he loves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phone Call

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this prompt: When chasing a suspect Lestrade got injured so badly that he didn't think he's gonna make it in time for rescue. His last regret is never telling SH how he feels, so he calls Sherlock to say good bye and tell him he loves him. (like Sherlock to John in TRF) H-He lives in the end of course.
> 
> I wish this could be longer. I really got attached to this world. I might do more later. We'll see.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, slamming his hand down and opening his mouth to give John a particularly sarcastic retort. He was perfectly within his rights to keep flammable explosives in the flat. Even if he had tried to hide them. Then his phone rang, and he pulled it out, glaring at it. Ignoring John, he answered it, pressing it to his ear. “What do you want, Lestrade?” he snapped.

For a moment there was silence on the other end, broken only by the sound of the DI’s laboured breathing. “Oh good,” Lestrade panted. “Was afraid you wouldn’t pick up.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he held up a hand in John’s direction, impatiently cutting off the remark that the army doctor was preparing. “Where are you, Detective Inspector?”

“Eh, it doesn’t matter,” Lestrade breathed. There was a hitch in his voice, like drawing breath was particularly difficult. Sherlock didn’t like it. It felt wrong. Bad. “I don’t have much time left.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock tried. He was gripping the phone so tightly he could feel it creak in his grip, and John had moved into his line of sight, torn halfway between concern and irritation from Sherlock’s previous actions. “Where are you? What is wrong?”

“Shut it, you mad, gorgeous berk.” Lestrade coughed, and Sherlock could hear him wince through the mobile connection. He wanted to throw the phone down, shout at it, demand that Lestrade tell him where he was, what was wrong. Instead he clutched it tighter, his heart hammering in his chest, fear and panic threatening to control him, make him lose his rationality.

Sherlock covered the phone’s receiver with his hand. “Text Sally,” he told John curtly. “Lestrade’s in trouble.” Hesitating briefly, he made a second decision. “And Mycroft. He needs to activate the tracker.”

“Tracker?” John inquired.

“Just do it,” Sherlock said brusquely.

“You’re still, talking,” Lestrade got out, and he sounded weaker. “How much blood can the human body lose, anyway?”

“Before a loss of consciousness? Two to four pints, depending. Before death? Five or six.” Sherlock paused, realised he was pacing, and continued. “It depends.”

“Got a few more minutes, then,” Greg said, and he sounded distracted. “Don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again,” he added. “So I wanted to call you.”

Sherlock paced back and forth, waiting. “Well?” he demanded after what felt like an eternity had passed. “Lestrade?”

“Oh,” the DI said, and Sherlock could hear him blink, hear his fuzziness. Blood loss, then, severe, possibly close to fatal, if Lestrade was going in and out of it. “I love you. Have for a rather long time, actually.” There was a faint chuckle, and it was all Sherlock could do to not drop the phone, not stare at it as if the world had turned upside down. It was like his mind had gone blank, like nothing made sense. There was no way - just - no.

“What?” Sherlock managed, dumbfounded.

“Just,” Lestrade panted, and his voice was weaker, the breathing slower, more laboured. Sherlock slipped on his coat, the mobile still crushed to his ear. “Just remember that, Sherlock.” There was a long pause, and Sherlock feared the worse, even as he dashed down the stairs and emerged from Baker street, his mind working furiously as he remembered the last clues he had given the DI. It was supposed to have been a simple retrieval, an idiot who had killed his girlfriend in a fit of passion. Nothing more. “No matter what, I love you.”

“Where are you?” Sherlock managed through gritted teeth, barely aware of John running behind him. He heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a slow exhale, and then the line went dead. Instead of throwing the phone on the floor out of frustration, Sherlock stuffed it into his pocket, rounding a corner so quickly he nearly stumbled. He halted, scanning the streets, allowing a panting John to catch up with him.

“What are we doing?” John got out between breaths.

Sherlock didn’t turn, didn’t hesitate, spoke quickly before dashing off in what he hoped was the right direction. “We have to find Lestrade.”

They had not made it more than a few blocks before John had gotten a call. Lestrade had been found. Rushed to Barts. Was in surgery. Sherlock ran off as soon as John had hung up the phone, with only one thought. He had to be there.

Not that he knew why. He didn’t care about Lestrade, of course. He was his work partner. An associate. Someone who was useful to him for cases, and nothing more. Sherlock clung to that thought like it was his life raft. It was all that was keeping him afloat in the sea of denial, all that kept him from taking a closer look at why his heart was racing, why he was afraid, why he wanted, why he was uncomfortable, uncertain. Emotions he had long denied existed were in the forefront, demanding to be examined, analysed, and Sherlock pushed them away.

He sank into the chair in the waiting area, hunched over, elbows on the sides of the chair, hands under his chin. His eyes were open, intent, staring at the wall, analysing every crack and divet, every mark and blemish. It was all he could do, allowing him to utilise what few skills he possessed to deal with any sort of emotional distress - not that he was emotionally distressed, but the potential was there, so he allowed for it.

Hours passed. He didn’t know how many. He didn’t care. He did not move, no matter what went on. Peripherally he knew John tried to get his attention. Some of the Yarders were there. Sally, and Anderson, among others, all at their most annoying, practically oozing concern. But he ignored them. He ignored everyone.

Until a doctor stepped out of the surgery room, searching. Sherlock stood, lingering at the back, Sally and Anderson at the front. Lestrade had no family. His ex-wife wasn’t there. Good riddance. He listened intently, heard ‘grim prognosis’, heard ‘hanging in there’, ‘no visitors’. Sherlock smirked, eyes seeking a CCTV camera, a security camera, anything. Mycroft would be watching. He nodded slightly, turned, strode purposefully through a nearby door.

He had the layout of the hospital memorised, after years of use of their pathology lab. It was a matter of moments before he accessed the pathology computers, hacking into the system, searching for the DI. Once he had a room number, he mentally plotted a roundabout path that would avoid the majority of the troublemakers and would get him into Lestrade’s room with minimal trouble.

Sherlock didn’t know why he needed to see Lestrade. Needed the assurance that he was alive and breathing, no matter how bad it was.

He just did.

His breath caught in his throat as he stood in the door, spotting what he had searched for. A few slow steps took him into the room, to Lestrade’s - no, Greg’s, he should be Greg - to his bedside, so Sherlock could see him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, searching for what was wrong, what had happened. There were bilateral intravenous lines, one delivering blood and the other necessary medication. And there were heavy bandages around one of his biceps.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at himself; why had he not taken the chance to at least look through Lestrade’s medical records when he had the chance? Greg, he reminded himself. Greg. There was a softness to the thought that unnerved him, made him squirm, want to run, want to hide. Instead he stepped closer, body flush against the side of the bed, eyes intent on the DI’s face. He looked like he was sleeping, like he was exhausted, but there was a pale cast to his face that worried Sherlock.

“Traumatic brachial artery injury,” Mycroft said from the door, arms crossed, the umbrella dangling from one of his hands. “Stay as long as you want. You won’t be disturbed.” Sherlock’s chin dipped a fraction in acknowledgment, and he grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it as close as he could. “I will let Mrs. Hudson and John know you are - alive.” The consulting detective made some sort of noise, something that vaguely indicated consent, or so he thought - he neither cared nor remembered. It didn’t matter.

Greg was still asleep, still out of it - the blood loss had taken a significant toll on him, on his ability to stay coherent. His body needed to rest, needed to recuperate. Build up the supplies of blood that it had lost in its effort to stay alive. And all for Sherlock. All for him. Because he loved him. Without meaning to, Sherlock tensed, hands balling into fists and tension making him rigid in the chair. It was that word again, that _sentiment_ , promising something that meant nothing. A phone call meant nothing. It was probably - a hallucination-induced...he gave up the line of thought before he realized exactly how feeble it was. It wasn’t real, and that was that.

It couldn’t be real.

Sherlock was a sociopath, after all. No one could love him, or care for him. Except for Mrs. Hudson, but she was - she was a special individual, and more of a mother to him than anyone had ever been. Greg was - Greg was good. He was an officer of the law, sworn to protect the world from - from people like Sherlock. People who didn’t care. Who couldn’t care. Who were broken and brittle, fractured and jagged. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock the hunter became Sherlock the hunted. He refused to draw Greg towards such a ticking time bomb.

Yet he could not bring himself to leave. He couldn’t stop himself from watching Greg as he slept, examining the way his face moved, how it twitched, how he shifted, tapped his finger, was restless. It was strangely beautiful, strangely attractive, and Sherlock wanted to hold onto every last memory, every last notion. He wanted to know everything about Greg, wanted to share everything with him, find out more. It was unsettling, frightening, but Sherlock did not care.

It was then that he realized Greg’s eyes were open and he was watching Sherlock, drinking in his face, staring, unabashed. “Hullo,” Greg murmured, startling Sherlock with the roughness of his voice, hoarse likely from the period of intubation during the surgery.

Sherlock stared, adrenaline rushing through his body and leaving him paralyzed, unsure of what to say, what to do. He wanted to run, he wanted to grab Greg and take him with him, he wanted to hold onto the other man and never let him go, never let him get into danger, ever again. Instead he sat, mute, staring at Greg with wide eyes. “I’m alive?” the DI continued. Sherlock nodded, and he saw a flicker of amusement cross Greg’s face. “Speechless, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped out of habit. He was never speechless. This was just - something unanticipated. Greg’s words ran through his mind. _Just remember that, Sherlock. No matter what, I love you._ “No.”

Greg’s gaze turned to the ceiling. “Well, made a right fool of myself,” he told the ceiling candidly. “Why are you here?”

Sherlock blinked, assessing. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. It was a true answer. He wasn’t even close to assessing exactly what had happened, what he felt, what it meant.

“Not sure if that’s good or bad,” Greg mused with a yawn. Sherlock studied his face, hit by a wave of tenderness he didn’t understand, and reached out to cup his cheek, stroke the stubbled flesh with his thumb. He didn’t know why. He just wanted to offer comfort. Make it just a little bit better. Greg stared at him, eyes torn between shock and sleepy, but his lips turned up at the corners before his eyes fluttered closed, sleep claiming him.

Sherlock leaned back in the chair, hands on his thighs, feeling uncomfortably uncertain for one of the few times in his life. He wanted to run. He wanted to be far away. But he stayed. The desire to be close to Greg, to this particular person, was more intense than the desire to run and be far away. All at once, exhaustion caught up with him. He did not know when he had last slept, when he had last rested, eaten. He didn’t want to leave. Scooting closer to the bed, impossibly closer, he crossed his arms and laid them next to Greg, using them as a pillow for his head before sleep claimed him.

When he awoke, it was a slow, languid process. There was a hand in his hair, carding through the curls, stroking his scalp, and it was oddly soothing. Despite the inherent discomfort of the chair he still felt warm and safe. The hand in his hair stilled, obviously feeling Sherlock’s movement, and the consulting detective made himself quiet again, unmoving, attempting to draw Greg into resuming the behavior. He had no words as to why he did what he did. He just did.

“I know you’re awake,” Greg murmured, continuing what he had been doing, giving each inch of Sherlock’s head equal attention.

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied, lazy and content. It was soothing, hypnotic, and he did not want to let it go.

“So my cards are on the table,” Greg said slowly, and his movements changed, allowing Sherlock to feel the tension that had taken over his body. It seemed easier, less frightening to have the conversation like this, where Sherlock didn’t have to look at Greg, didn’t have to see him, but they were still joined by the movement of Greg’s hand through his curls. It was intimate and light, with hints of something darker, more passionate, running just underneath the surface. It was frightening and calming at the same time. “What do you think?”

Sherlock thought. Categorised the thumping of his heart, the pleased hum of his breath as Greg’s hand continued carding through his hair, the way it made his skin tingle. How he had gone out of his way, without knowing why, to make sure that Greg was alive. How he had defied rules, expectations - anything, all to know that he would be okay. The way that Greg was his focal point, the way he followed him with his eyes, the way that Greg followed him. They were in sync, at times two people who moved or thought as one.

“I don’t know what you want,” Sherlock said finally.

“Not much,” Greg replied practically, his hand and motions losing some of their tension. Was he pleased with Sherlock’s answer? Not pleased? His mind spun. Was it the right one? The wrong one? “We’ll start slow. Maybe some more of this. I’ll buy take-out, and subject you to a horrifically inaccurate movie.” Sherlock felt the air lighten, could practically feel Greg smile. “Whatever you want.”

Sherlock inhaled, exhaled. He smiled slowly - his shy smile, his soft smile. “I would like that.".

“Good,” Greg murmured in reply.

And so it began. Things weren’t always easy, not between them. There were misunderstandings and frustrations, misinterpretations and incorrect deductions and assumptions. But it worked. Eventually John moved out of 221B, and Greg moved in. Sherlock was delighted to have the extra bedroom for his experiments. As time passed, and things straightened out, Greg retired from the force, and Sherlock agreed to leave London, leaving John (and Mycroft) behind. Sherlock got his bees, and Lestrade worked around their house, doing minor repairs and caring for the few goats that he insisted on owning.

Throughout all of it, throughout their lives together, a trend had started, had grown, had survived, endured. Greg’s near-miss with death had brought about an insecurity Sherlock had not even known he had, had not realised he possessed. So at least once a day, without fail, Greg would call him, and if Sherlock didn’t pick up, he would send him a text. Assuring him that he was okay. He was alive. Working hard (or hardly working, depending). In return, Sherlock would reply. He would text. On rare occasions, he would call.

It kept them in touch. They were reassured, knowing that the other was safe. That they were okay. Alive. Neither would admit how much those small bits of contact meant to them. Sherlock wouldn’t admit it the nights he woke up frantic, whether Greg was there or not, because he had to be certain that his partner was alive, that he was safe, that he was there and still loved him. Greg wouldn’t admit to the nights he woke up screaming, feeling like his heart had jumped out of his chest, when memories of the Reichenbach incident became too much and Sherlock was not there to fix it.

But they had each other, and that was what mattered. If a single phone call, a single text, a single message - if that helped each other get through the day, they would do it. In the end, what they had, what mattered - was each other.


End file.
